Signs
by Rae Seddon
Summary: An ongoing series of drabbles based on the 25 Signs challenge on LJ. Shounen-ai hints throughout if you choose to take it as such. WARNING: Spoilers for the Death Note novel!
1. Exit Only

Exit Only

Some days are better than others, and it's the kind of job where the better days make you feel invincible, and the bad ones have you sleeping with one eye open. Some days you enjoy the solitude and watching the crowds below through grime-tinted glass, marking the hours in spent matchsticks and crumbled sliver foil and others you're scratching for the door, not caring if you're really just still in bed and clawing at your partner's back. Not that he feels it through the scar tissue anyway. You _were_ waiting for the 'Exit Only' sign to appear somewhere; any chance to escape. You think about slipping through that alley when you're walking back together, or jumping out of the car as soon as it's stopped, and sometimes when it's not. You think about sneaking out in the middle of the night when he's wracked with fever, dying in your arms. But then he gets better, the wounds that let the fever in turn to scars and he looks at you and his eyes tell you that you are all he has. From that point on you know there's only one exit, and it's The Exit, and that's okay.


	2. Soft Shoulder

Growing up, Near had known nothing but softness. The blanket coiled around him as a baby, the tickle of his mother's hair on his cheeks, and even the palms of her hands when she'd tried to strangle the life out of him had been soft, in their way. So when his father left him on the carriage step of Whammy House, he hadn't taken to the unyielding stone beneath him well at all. And there was something else within those walls that would prove hard as well.

Mello. The blond was hard angles from every perspective, even as a child. At every forced contact, Near was afraid that the mere touch of his skin would rupture something deep within from which recovery would be impossible. His only possible recourse was to once again surround himself in softness, to file down the edges of anything he came in contact with...including most people. Near would come off as so strange and alarming that whatever sharpness someone possessed would be instantly blunted by his way of being. He wasn't so much interested if that person was soft to begin with, just that they cease to be that way around him whenever possible.

Mello was the exact opposite. He had no concept of personal space that wasn't his own, and unlike all of the others, even L, he refused to be subdued by Near's buffering social constructs. One day Mello was so tired of seeing Near in his white clothes that he forced him into the scratchiest, most threadbare wool sweater he could find. He took Near so far outside of his comfort zone by just living that there was a time when he would have done anything to be rid of him.

That was until Matt came along. Matt was a year younger, clumsy but not unintelligent, and above all, he actually managed to soften Mello around the edges a bit. Near would watch from the foyer on a calm spring day as the two would, instead of playing hopscotch or any other asinine games, work out quadratic equations on the sidewalk. Their heads would be bent together, shoulders touching, and eyes dancing.

That's all that would ever touch between them—shoulders; the occasional hand when Matt would stumble over some unforeseen traitor stone in the cobble walk. Either way, it made Near wonder how soft Matt had to be in order to do that to Mello...to make him smile instead of sneer, to make him laugh instead of make that crow-like cackle. What was there in that pale, usually bare shoulder that cowed Mello so completely?

Near never had a chance to find out. Six years later, both Matt and Mello were gone, within weeks of each other. Their parting, which Near had shamelessly observed through the crack of a door, had been a meeting of shoulders, followed by a brief tousle of hair. And as he walked away, Mello's hand lingered, touching his upper arm with trembling fingers, as if to take whatever softness Matt had imparted and insulate his shattered heart against the world they'd chosen to embrace.


	3. Narrow Bridge

Narrow Bridge

The wind wisped her hair about wildly, negligent of the way it stung and flecked her eyes with tears. She'd forgotten how long she'd been there, staring out over the city as if it's symphony would miraculously usher forth all of the answers she was looking for. There was only one answer, and it rested still out of her reach, hanging there ephemeral in the cold autumn air just by her lips.

"L..."

She remembered their first meeting; the strange exuberance he showed her and no one else. Companions in arms, they'd made it through the meat grinder of that case, and although he'd been nothing more than a voice on a phone, she'd felt that she knew him better than she sometimes knew herself. And that had never left her, that feeling, the comfort that comes from seeing someone for who they truly were.

And if it was true that he was working on the Kira investigation, he obviously needed help. The whole situation with a number of seemingly indecipherable mass killings reminded her too much of that first case, of a child with dead eyes and a deader soul. L had to be thinking the same thing, especially looking at the messages left by some of the victims. The victims were messages in and of themselves. Her fiancée had been one of them.

They had never even thought about children. He was still too young, was still full of ambitions and dreams of what a place of note in the Kira case would bring him—bring her, the wife of a twice decorated FBI agent. Raye had gotten a purple heart for his service that she'd just hurled rather epically to the frozen ground some yards below. All of the agents had gotten them, and the honor of it only served to mock everything he'd died for.

The narrow way stretching to either side of her and up a small mesh platform looked like the path to the gallows, no matter how fervently she told herself it was just a slatted metal bridge, barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. She'd almost jumped the first time she found the place. She'd had her shoes off before two voices from the back of her mind bellowed, "Stop!" one was Raye's, the other may have been L, she'd only ever heard his real voice briefly. She's climbed down, slipped her shoes back on and warmed in a small coffee shop a few blocks down. A new determination laced through her blood with the sugar and mindless caffeine, and not the smallest sense of release. She was no longer the fiancée of an FBI agent, she was the widow of one.

Only then did the bridge span miles.


	4. Detour

Detour

He'd been doing it so long, when Sayu said, "what are you doing?" Matsuda really didn't hear her. So she said it again.

"What are you doing?"

"What?"

"You turned too early, the theater is two blocks up."

"Oh..." He threw the car into reverse with a tell-tale nervous chuckle. His eyes flashed something briefly that Sayu swore was an ineffable sadness, and for some time they sat in silence, only the radio providing a distracted, inappropriate soundtrack.

_Sleep one now, I heard that a knee makes a good pillow when you're down._

"...How's work been?"

"Fine. Aizawa's in line for another promotion soon."

"That's good, his family is well?"

"Yeah. Yumi starts middle school this spring."

"Time really flies, doesn't it?"

"Sure does."

"That's not the first time you've turned down that way." Sayu said randomly.

"Is it? I always miss the turn off for the theater. What time is it?"

"Only 6:13, we have plenty of time. So is there any reason?"

"For what?"

"Why you turn down that way."

"Nothing that you need to hear." Matsuda replied automatically.

"Work?"

"Hmm."

"Dad used to drive by this hotel in Asakusa all the time. Mom said it was where his first homicide case happened. It...used to creep me out a little, but I guess I understand now. Sometimes I want to go to New York just to see..."

"Can we please change the subject, Sayu-chan?"

"I'm sorry...! Sometimes I just think aloud too much."

"No, it's not that..."

"Then what? We take the same route wherever we go, Tota. When I was a little girl you could fool me with that 'detour' stuff, but now it's just weird...you get all quiet and moody around my friends and yours...and you haven't set foot in my house in three years. We've been dating for two. People talk, Tota. They think you're an ungrateful coward and..."

"And?"

"And frankly, you make it really difficult for other people to defend you."

"What makes you think I can't defend myself?"

"Because you never have! Your universal response to everything is to curl up into a little ball and wait for it to blow over. Now if you want anything other than two years of wasted time out of me then turn back down that street and tell me what happened there." Sayu blinked; she never quite had any idea how conversations to turned to this, but eventually, they all did. If they didn't, they simply tapered off into silence that would dominate their time together.

Quite suddenly, Matsuda turned on his police flashers, made a sharp turn in the middle of the street and sped down the other way, the cyanic and crimson light casting shadows over his normally set, sad expression. He found the street; made another dangerous turn, causing Sayu to clutch the seat in mute terror. The street narrowed sickeningly before opening up into the back parking lot of a abandoned warehouse. He slammed on his breaks and turned the car off, resting his head on the steering wheel. When he moved his hands, moist marks were left behind.

There was a long, trembling pause. He started the car.

"I can't do it. I can't...I love you Sayu but I can't ask you to share this." His hand hadn't left the ignition. She curled her fingers around it and turned the car off, leaning close enough to feel his heart beat.

"I am my mother's daughter. And my mother was the wife of a police officer. She shared his burden even if she didn't know what that burden was. Dad wasn't so prideful to admit that he didn't need that."

"I'm not your father, Sayu. He was...a better man than I will ever be, why can't you accept that?" Matsuda hushed under his breath.

"You're a good man, Tota. You have every opportunity to be as good a man as my father or better. If I didn't know that in the bottom of my heart I wouldn't say it." She huddled against him, and Matsuda put an arm around her, breathing heavily to keep from weeping. Her hair was silk between his fingers, her skin soft and a little flushed.

"And that's where your wrong. You father never doubted what side he was on, not once. He was just like L. I doubted Sayu-chan. I doubted every step of the way."

"Lots of people did back then. That doesn't make you a bad person, it makes you human. Maybe if dad had had second thoughts about storming Mello's hideout he'd still be alive..." She choked back the thought that had followed, wondering if now of all times would be a good time to tell him. She swallowed hard, very hard, and forced herself to continue talking.

"Mello told me things, Tota. He told me that Kira might be working from within the police. As much as I hated him, he was trying just as hard to figure things out as you, dad and Light were. I've never forgotten him, what he said...I can't. 'There's a chance Kira is within the police.' I doubted too."

"Mello could have made anyone doubt their—wait...what?" Matsuda stopped himself, having just processed what Sayu told him.

"I mean, it made sense. First L died, then dad and then Light. And right after that the killings stopped, like that, it was over. It stands to reason that someone who was present at that final confrontation where my brother died was Kira, and only two people didn't walk away from that: my brother, and Mikami Teru. So who was it, Tota? Which one of them was Kira?"

Matsuda almost stopped breathing. Screw being her mother's daughter, Sayu Yagami was without a doubt her brother's sister. But then again, Near hadn't exactly left them with a grand plan to stop people from figuring what really happened out on their own. To say that 'Light Yagami died in pursuit of Kira' was pretty weak considering how things had played out. How he, Matsuda Tota, made things play out.

"Mikami Teru was Kira. He killed your brother just as he figured it out. We were able to apprehend him before he could kill anyone else." Matsuda could feel Sayu un-tense her body next to him. She turned to face him.

"That's the truth?"

"Yes. Your brother was a good person, Sayu. He wasn't afraid to die knowing that Kira would die with him."

She smiled, arched her neck up and kissed him, "This is where it happened, isn't it?" she whispered, cupping his face in her hands.

"Here. Right inside that building." Matsuda confirmed. "I'm sorry Sayu-chan, I should have known you would have figured it out. You are Light's sister, after all."

For the first time all night, she giggled, even if it was a little sadly, "I'm no Miss To-Oh, though, sorry."

Matsuda laughed, kissed her hand to get it off the ignition and sped out of the alley pretending he didn't want to be late for the movie.


	5. Share the Road

Special Author's Note: This was written as a response to episode 35—inspired partially by Matt's incredible driving, Mark Danielewski, and his extremely talented sister "Poe" and her song "Hey Pretty."

* * *

Share the Road

The car handled like a dream. He knew it would—he had a knack for sensing that about a vehicle before buying it. It helped that any modification was lovingly hand-done, with late night joyrides down the empty streets or challenging a street racer or two thrown in for the fuck of it. He remembered a maneuver one of them had used on him, saw his opening in the traffic, and threw out the clutch. It would hate him the next day, but he'd say the necessary apologies and buy a new one. The whole carriage protested the speed and jerking swerves—fast, slow, fast-fast, slow gunning around turns and weaving like a madman between late night traffic. He drove until more wind and miles than he'd been prepared to expect reared up on him like the promise of freedom and he was almost foolish enough to believe it.

His mind was in total flashback. It was one of the rare slow days when they needed a supply run for chocolate and cigarettes and what passed for food. They'd been eating out a lot, eating money like it was candy. And having survived for years on what he could scavenge or steal, Matt couldn't get used to Mello's brand of extravagance. Candlelight dinners at five star restaurants, dressed like they'd just walked out of the loudest, wildest club in the city. Most of the time they had.

Mello passed the off-ramp that would have taken them to their collective hovel and drove until noon, when they'd hit real country, where the only traffic were produce trucks. He'd have the pedal to the floor knowing there was a turn, barely slow down and take it with a swing of the wheel. Matt's stomach would lurch, adrenaline would flood his brain and he'd laugh at the way Mello would grin and snap off a large chunk of chocolate when his survival instinct had Matt clutching the 'oh shit' bar.

When Matt had successfully complained that he was hungry, Mello jerked back on the parking break and ordered him to lie on top of him. On top of those smooth leather pants—which had probably cost more than his Wii when they were new. They were worn now, scuffed and shredded at the hem. Not that it mattered when all Mello wanted to do was get them off, discard the offending garments like another part of his thick, coarse emotional shell. Their lips trembled, shaped words into a language of passion and lust and unexpressed gratitude. The first time he'd found himself with Mello under him like that, Matt had been tired and panicked and afraid that his best friend had arrived on his doorstep coughing blood and almost missing an eye. Now, once the screams and panting had ceased to pound in Matt's ears, and Mello played lazily with his hair, asking for the sake of breaking the silence why he hasn't gotten it cut, all that mattered was the presence of the other—their dark language sleeping away in the back of their minds, ready to revive at a moments notice.

Matt needed that language now. He needed it like he needed a cigarette. So he lit one. An echoing chorus of cocking guns reached his ringing ears faintly above the keening whine of an over-taxed engine. Matt took a moment to lightly pat the dashboard and steel himself for getting out. He wished his goggles were darker, for lack of a blindfold. These assholes were his firing squad, after all and at the very least he didn't want to see all of those bright muzzle-flashes, sparking off like the lighter he always carried with him. He was still calm enough to calculate the time each bullet would take to reach him. He looked to the passenger's seat where Mello would have been if they done things _his_ way, and for a second saw the grinning blond beckoning him to his lap again. Matt put two gloved fingers to a set of pale, ethereal lips and stepped out of the car.


	6. Duck Crossing

Author's Note: I'm on a roll today, dang. Everyone writes about Mello visiting Near when no one else is around, but what about Matt?

* * *

Duck Crossing

The cherry red Chevy sedan had been sitting outside of headquarters for three hours, and everyone was worried but Near. He'd asked if it had moved every hour, but it was impossible to tell if he was pleased or disappointed every time Lester said, "no." Near only huddled by his pool with a screwdriver, an RC remote, and a tiny platoon of little mechanized rubber ducks—they were one of the stranger implements Near had brought with him from Whammy House, least of all because they appeared hand-made. Each duck was powered by two double-a batteries which were suspended in the middle of the duck, protected from the water by the sealed rubber bottom. The back of each popped off for easy battery replacement, but recently a number had come loose.

"Near, someone is getting out of the car...it's not Mello." Lester reported from the parking lot.

"Put them on screen," Near requested without looking up from the delicate work of re-attaching the hinge to the back of one of his ducks. The television screens all around him filled with the image a young man with dark auburn hair and goggles, wearing a plain black and white stripped shirt and very tight jeans. An unlit cigarette rested on chapped, bitten lips. Near smiled, telling Lester dispassionately, "It's alright, let him in."

The smile was gone by the time heavy footfalls carried their way down the corridor into Near's inner sanctum. He dropped a minuscule screw unexpectedly and was rooting around under Giovanni's chair when Mael Jeevas entered the room.

"Fucking Christ, you still have those?" Matt blurted, recognizing the ducks as his own ten year old handiwork. Near didn't react.

"They were a parting gift, as I recall," Near replied, ooching as low to the tile floor as he could manage before straightening again, the screw pinched lightly between two fingers. "Not exactly the safest thing for an eight year old."

Matt chuckled, "So look, I know Mello covered his ass when he left, I just came to make sure--

_Quaaacckk! Thump._

Near drove one of the ducks into Matt's boot. He was tempted to kick it away, but instead picked it up and removed his goggles, amazed that Near had taken such good care of them. The rubber in the bottom of the one he held had been patched any number of times, and upon inspection of the internal wiring, it was like new, little copper strands gleaming and tiny engine continuing to _whirr _away into happy oblivion.

"Built to last, huh?" Matt said suddenly, putting the duck back down, his demeanor no longer quite as gruff. He watched it zoom back to where Near crouched on the floor, and while Near never looked at Matt, he was somehow aware that he had the boy's undivided attention.

"No, not quite, but Baxter here is the best of the lot," Near pointed to another one of the ducks—they all looked the same to Matt-- "Nate is the runt of the paddling. Repairs every other week since you made him."

Matt hated when someone pointed out his mistakes. He picked 'Nate' up and popped the back off, saying belligerently, "I didn't come here to play doctor. I just need to know if you kept any _relevant _info on me back at the House. Mello doesn't want me with him if I'm walking Kira bait—hand me that screwdriver, will you?"

Near crawled over to Matt, carrying the screwdriver and a few other tools bundled in his shirt.

"You misunderstand. Mello purposefully left a photo of himself behind," Near said unconcernedly. "Your records were destroyed as soon as soon as you left."

Matt grunted around his cigarette, "Sounds like something Mello would do—pliers, and a soldering gun?"

"On the counter."

The whole of the operation took less than fifteen minutes. Near was glad he'd told the others to wait outside. He wasn't sure why, but it was something about how this is how the two boys had always interacted. Behind closed doors. There was no need to ask silly questions like, "Does Mello know you're here?" not only because Near was sure he didn't and also sure that it wouldn't change anything. He was convinced Mello knew anyway—all the way from their school days. Matt finished with his work and asked for two batteries. Near handed them to him, and Matt snapped them briskly into place. He screwed the hinge for the back on and placed it on the ground.

"Give it a try." It was a command but given in the only way Matt could give one—slowly and with great care, as if the words were foreign to him. Near picked up the remote, flipped a switch, and the duck Nate rocketed towards the wading pool in the middle of the room, it's plastic beak bobbing.

"More than satisfactory," Near appraised, but he looked sad to Matt for some reason, as if the duck was only the tip of the iceberg. Something else was broken, Matt was sure but he couldn't tell what. He stood and strode to the door.

"So you got nothing on me, are you sure?" he wasn't about to leave without at least salvaging some of his original intentions.

"Nothing, Matt."

"Good. I'll see you around then."

Near was amazed at how final and resolute the words sounded, but went back to testing Nate once again. He needed to make sure. Because if Matt was that determined to fix _all_ of his old mistakes than he better start paying very close attention to Mello...it was only a matter of time now, after all.


	7. Divided Highway

The problem with people like Roger, was that they only saw the big picture. He thought the loss of their idol would shock Mello and Near into working together when fourteen years of bitterness and anger had kept them on two sides of a narrow—but extremely steep—divide. He just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Near hated Mello as much as Mello hated Near. The boy dressed in all white, the paragon on innocence. Apparently Roger forgot that the white part of a flame burned hottest...and the most silent.

In was in that heat and silence that the two met, hours before one would leave, to discuss the allocation of resources. It went without saying that if Mello left, he wouldn't have the backing of the Institution, but there were other resources within the Institution that people like Roger wouldn't give a second glance. Matt was one such resource. They had both used him in the past, for business and pleasure, but this would decide where the young man's loyalties would lie from that day onward.

The dull shifting of wood on the tiny tiled floor was the only sound that passed between them as Near took time setting the 'board' in front of them. They had played each other before, and every game had been a stalemate. As the miniature armies of light and darkness formed their quiet ranks, Mello said one thing before taking his first move.

"I'm not letting you win."

"By all means, why should you?" replied Near, moving out a knight in response. Mello, as always, had made the mistake of emotionally attaching himself to Matt when he knew full well that like everything at the Institution, he would loose him eventually.

"You don't deserve him." First blood. The white knight toppled and rolled in a futile arch towards Mello's side of the board. Mello knew better to call it a strong start, Near would go on the offensive soon, and when he did it would be devastating.

It was. Near took out two pawns and one of Mello's bishops in the subsequent turns. The bishop was a loss, but not an unexpected loss, and that was Near's weakness. Predicable loss was always preferred to unpredictable—risk was only worth it if the gain was glaringly obvious. And Mello was not an obvious person.

But Near knew that. And in knowing that, he watched the black army dance their way across the board, looking for a pattern in their advance and retreat, in small losses and Hail-Mary maneuvers. It was enough to make Near believe that Mello could have won the Battle of the Hot Gates—some Spartan soul ill-content with resting in the Elysian Fields leaned over his shoulder and smiled approvingly. The boy had the instincts of a natural born leader, and for the first time when it counted, Near could really appreciate it.

It was time to cut his losses. Near took a deep breath and went for broke.

"Checkmate."

"--Mate."

"What?!" Near's eyes took in the board in stunned disbelief. By moving his queen to mate Mello's king, he'd neglected a pawn. A single lowly little pawn had pinned his king down completely. Near looked up at Mello dispassionately, but he understood the superior gleam in Mello's eyes. That pawn was Matt. Mello hadn't cared about his king at all, it was the pawn that needed the way in.

"I never intended to win," Mello said casually, "I just needed you to see that. Now do you understand why you don't deserve him?"

Near nodded, "I just don't understand...how you can think so little of yourself..." He picked up the black king and held it reverently, rubbing a thumb over the worn little curves.

"Compared to Matt?..." Mello shrugged, standing and dusting off his knees. "If you had really wanted to win you'd understand. And that's the problem Near, you never wanted to win. If you did you would have. You always do."

"I did want to win...Matt didn't, though," Near said lowly, remaining in his hunched sit. He could feel Mello tense a few feet away in the gloom.

"Typical," Mello said, and barked a laugh. His voice was still a little hoarse from crying, and the sound choked almost as soon as he'd forced it out. "Throwing the game in his own favor." He was pulling on his pale denim jacket and adjusting the straps of his rucksack. A pale band of moonlight flashed across the delicate silver cross around his neck before vanishing under the folds of the jacket. Near didn't move until Mello was to the door of the common room.

"Mello,"

"Near,"

"Take care of him."

Mello creaked the door open just enough so that Near could see the serene smile playing across his lips.

"Don't I always?"


	8. Slippery When Wet

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to Mary-anne, whom I met at Otakon and was the catalyst to one really awesome weekend. Thanks for making it so memorable.

* * *

On the first day, the rain whips out over the fields, bringing the tide of that great whispering green ocean almost to the front steps. He teases it by standing just close enough to edge to feel the faux sea-spray on his face and arms, enjoying the goosebumps as they rise all over his exposed flesh. Thunder takes its time to roll across the rim of the sky, resonating through him—and beyond it, there are only the bells.

On the last day, the green is grey and warped, far from the chipping brick and creaking wood of the first day. The storm had finally made it around the world, after twenty years returning to him there, on the edge of another precipice. He's not alone this time and on the first day he thought that would make him happier, if he ever heard the bells again—but it didn't because he was the only one that heard them. And somehow, he knew it would be that way.


	9. Dangerous Intersection

Author's Note: Updated at last! Sorry this and my other stories are taking so long, but life has a way of doing that...; Enjoy!

* * *

Dangerous Intersection

_Kr-Crunch!_

Giovanni winced and lifted and expensively leathered foot, his eyes immediately training on the powdery pile of what was once a stack of cheerios cereal. A prickle of annoyance surged through him, but he suppressed it just long enough to remember his task and take another step.

_Snap!_

"Jesus!" A lego man caught under the back of another heel and there was a hard, plastic _ping_ as the head snapped off and hit the opposite wall. The occupational hazard of navigating Whammy House since Near's return almost made him want to demand extra health coverage. Near apparently considered it perfectly normal to use any space but the one designated for him to play out whatever ill-sorted thoughts that had consumed him for the past few months.

Some way down the hall, he could start to make out the rustle of heavy, baggy clothing on worn wood. The only rooms that branched off from there were unused—presumably storage areas. It wasn't uncommon to go looking for some mundane necessity of daily operation—printer paper or staples—and come across an action figure or two stashed away on a shelf or in a corner. The behavior was classic for children who had suffered serious abuse early in life, and more than a few times he's heard Hal and Lester whispering worriedly about Near 'reverting' to some previous modus operandi.

Whatever, Giovanni told himself, Near was Near and he'd never steered them wrong. And maybe whatever the thing he now held in his hands would help. How he wasn't quite sure.

"Near?" Giovanni stopped in front of a cracked pine door, the varnish faded, worn.

"What is it?" a familiar disembodied voice replied.

"Something came for you through priority mail. It's dated January 25...there was no name but the return address is a factory somewhere in LA. I did some checking and the property belongs to Whammy House—

"Let me see it."

Giovanni hesitated, not sure if he should slip it under the door or actually enter. Near hadn't cautioned him either way, and usually if he had some sprawling project like the City of Cards he would. As if to answer his quandary, four long, slender fingers slipped under the door frame. So he knelt, placed the packet on the tips of Near's fingers, and watched as they both disappeared in a swift, almost greedy pull. Why he waited, Giovanni didn't know. There was something about the date, the timing of it's arrival that made the packet's very existence a weight in his hands other than the eight ounces of physical paper.

Soundlessly, something crumpled to the floor beyond the door and without thinking, Giovanni turned the knob and entered, almost stepping on an immaculate sleeve in the process. Near had taken one look at the hand writing on the packet and collapsed. His clear eyes were fixed on the area of the wall exactly opposite, as if rooted there by something Giovanni could neither see nor sense.

"Near, are you alright?"

"It's from him." Near breathed. Giovanni didn't need to be told who him was, but the information was impossible—and for a moment his mind followed the impossibility to it's conclusion. Was he alive somehow? Was he back in Los Angeles, back at the sight of his first failure, trying to understand why he'd failed? Why Near had won?

"Near, he's dead. There are plenty of ways he could have arranged this. It's just another one of his sick jokes..."

"Shut up." Near commanded, picking himself up and the packet with him. The yellow envelope fell away to reveal the letterhead of a defunct boxing plant in the Los Angeles slums. Apparently Mello had used whatever was available at the time. The first page was a neatly printed note.

_Dear Near,_

_I hope this shocks you out of whatever funk you're in following my death, if you are in fact in one. I don't expect you to be, as it's highly out of character...but when I first thought about writing this, I was not exactly myself either. I am even less myself now, if you're reading this. _

_Regardless of what victories you have won since defeating Kira, let the following account serve to remind you that as L you are never not at the precipice of another dangerous intersection. Maybe you're at one right now and don't need me to tell you this—but since amongst other qualities we both inherited L's superior cockiness—I'm telling you anyway._

_And no, this volume is not about me, and if you choose you may disregard my commentary entirely. I can imagine that you've had more than enough of my constant, biting analysis anyway. This volume is about something that happened before you and I were ever in the picture, and it would do well to heed that 'before time.' Because if it is one thing I can guarantee you about a world after Kira, it is that there is no after. The past is present. So it has been, as you will see, and so it shall remain._

_Mello. _


End file.
